


The One About Duty

by Kyele



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), The West Wing
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompt, West Wing Fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:49:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4124592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Me:</b> <i>(reblogs West Wing/Onion Headlines gifset <a href="http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/">to tumblr</a>)</i><br/><b><a href="http://bean-about-town.tumblr.com/">Bean</a></b> (<a href="http://bean-about-town.tumblr.com/post/121112910918/timeforalongstory-bean-about-town">on tumblr</a>): <i>You reblogging that makes me think of a Treville/Richelieu West Wing AU... my immediate reaction was richelieu as press secretary and treville as basically Danny (the reporter).</i><br/><b>Me:</b> <i>I can really see Richelieu is the longsuffering public face of the Bourbon administration</i><br/><b>Bean:</b> <i>pls do this thing</i> </p><p>I did this thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One About Duty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Theonenamedafterahat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theonenamedafterahat/gifts).



> Shameless fun with inserting Musketeers characters into the West Wing. Featuring (drumroll please): Louis and Anne as the Bartlets, Milady de Winter as Josh, d'Artagnan as Donna, Richelieu as the unholy fusion of CJ and Toby, Treville as Danny Concannon, Jussac as the unholy fusion of Bonnie and Ginger, and Bernajoux and Boisrenard as Ed and Larry (or vice versa). 
> 
> Title from WW2x05 [_And It's Surely To Their Credit_](http://westwing.wikia.com/wiki/And_It%27s_Surely_to_Their_Credit). Of course it's the one about duty: they're _all_ about duty. 
> 
> ...it's probably best if no one thinks about the casting (or the rest of this) too hard.

“Tell me this doesn’t mean what I think it means.”

Milady looks up. “Good morning, Armand, you’re in early.”

“I swear to god, Milady, tell me you had too much red wine last night and paged me on a whim or – or – ”

“Or what? Honey, I outrank you.” Deputy Chief of Staff Milady de Winter leans back and smiles. “And President Bourbon likes me.”

“None of which is the point,” Richelieu hisses. “The _point is – ”_

“Yes, it means what you think it means.”

“The President really – ”

“Rode his horse into a tree.”

“And I – ”

“Have to go into a room full of reporters in about – oh, ten minutes – and try to spend the entire morning briefing not leaping over the podium to strangle that sexy New York Times reporter when he brushes aside the oil crisis in Qatar to talk about how the President managed to ride a perfectly sane, otherwise healthy animal into a tree. Yes.”

Richelieu opens his mouth to vent about exactly how frustrating that New York Times reporter is. This reporter – one Jean Treville – is the bane of Richelieu’s existence. He’s far too good at hijacking a perfectly ordinary briefing and turning it into a sideshow of witty banter and disturbingly insightful questions. He’s a past master of slipping a piece of information into a question that Richelieu doesn’t notice until _after_ Richelieu has given away more than he should. And he has an entirely unhealthy obsession with the minutiae of politics. Which _should_ have gotten him fired from a paper which bills itself and its political coverage as serious, comprehensive, and first with the news. In a just world, it would. But in the world Richelieu lives in, Jean Treville’s silly obsession with irrelevancies turns into a major story a disturbing amount of the time.

In short, Jean Treville is meticulously crafted to be Richelieu’s kryptonite, his nemesis, with whom he will be locked in furious battle until President Bourbon’s term ends or Richelieu’s heart gives out, whichever comes first. Which is why Richelieu gladly seizes on this opportunity to vent about the man, and opens his mouth, only to listen in horror as he unaccountably says the following:

“My _god_ he’s sexy.”

“I know, right?” Milady flips her hair. “If he weren’t making eyes at you I’d snatch him up myself. Mmm, and those eyes are electric. So blue. Is there a word for that blue?”

Richelieu chokes. “He is not making eyes at me!”

“I think he is.”

“You’re conflating eternal antagonism with sexual tension.”

“Oh, hon, it’s cute how you think there’s a difference.”

“Milady, I _swear to god_ – ”

“You’ve been doing that a lot. You should really get that checked out.”

“Did you hear about President Bourbon?” d’Artagnan pipes in, appearing next to Richelieu in Milady’s office door.

“Don’t you have something to type?” Richelieu snaps.

“His typing is terrible,” Milady says.

“But I make up for it with my looks and charm,” d’Artagnan says cheerfully. “Milady, you have the house subcommittee on appropriations at eleven and then the chairman wanted the private meeting after, here’s the file – oof – and the minority leader wants to know if she can get five minutes of your time later, about the trade deficit.”

“Absolutely not,” Richelieu says before Milady can answer.

Milady raises an eyebrow. “I think it’s a good idea.”

“She doesn’t actually want to talk about the trade deficit.”

“Of course she doesn’t. She wants to talk about how I’m going to make sure her district doesn’t flip Republican in November. So?”

“Her district’s going to flip Republican in November.”

“Not if we – ”

“Rochefort just filed residency papers.” George Rochefort is a flannel-wearing populist with a Midwestern twang who’d once famously answered a question about law enforcement during a televised debate by saying ‘Crime, boy, I don’t know’. Despite this – or perhaps because of it – he’s the current darling of the Tea Party and a lock to win any election he stands for, never mind the Colorado 5th.

Milady shoots to her feet. “Rochefort can’t! It’s not legal!”

“It is if he’s been listed as part owner on his parents’ old property for the last twenty years. Now, thanks to their convenient and untimely death, he’s _full_ owner. Rochefort designates it as his primary residence and voila.”

Milady groans. “D’Artagnan!” she shouts.

“I’m still standing right here,” d’Artagnan says.

“You were behind Richelieu.”

“I get that a lot,” Richelieu says philosophically.

“D’Artagnan, tell the minority leader I’ll meet with her – ”

“Hey!” Richelieu protests.

“ – _tomorrow_. Is Charon in?”

“He’s already left for the Hill.”

“Constance?”

“The First Lady’s Chief of Staff?” d’Artagnan asks in surprise.

Milady groans. “No, the new senior aide for legislative affairs is _also_ named Constance. It’s confusing. I’m starting a petition to rename her Emily.”

“Oh. Well, if Charon’s gone, she must be.”

“No, she’s still here,” Richelieu says. “I just passed her in the bullpen. Something about tarot and predicting the future.”

“What about the tarot?” Milady asks, distracted.

“Milady, in what universe would I have stopped to ask Emily for details about her tarot problem?”

“That’s a fair point,” Milady concedes. “D’Artagnan, get me Emily. And then I want the next five minutes the President has.”

“There’s nothing the President can do,” Richelieu says. “Residency requirements are set by – ”

“Don’t you have a press briefing about a horse and a tree?” Milady snaps.

Richelieu winces. “Thanks. I needed that reminder.”

“Boss?” Richelieu’s assistant Jussac has materialized in the space left by d’Artagnan, holding a stack of briefing materials. “I have the précis on the horse/tree situation.”

“Thanks – ”

“I also have some advice about how not to make a fool of yourself in front of that cute reporter. I know we started off on the wrong foot with the flap over the First Lady’s Ouija board but I really think – ”

“Angels and ministers of grace defend us,” Richelieu groans, snatching up the file and striding off.

* * *

“Secretary Richelieu, is it true the President rode his horse into a tree?”

Miguel Perales, the Washington Post reporter who’d asked this question, has a particularly oily smile this morning. Not that his smile is ever _not_ oily. That fact, along with being the only one to insist on addressing Richelieu by his full title and surname at every opportunity, has had Perales voted “most likely to be accidentally run over by an out-of-state motorist coming down Massachusetts Ave without looking both ways at Columbus Circle” five years running. Richelieu resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. It would stave off the upcoming headache, but it would also be showing weakness. One never showed weakness in the briefing room. Unfortunate root canal incident aside.

“I’ll say this once,” Richelieu says, pitching his voice to carry, and making it as reasonable as he knows how. “President Bourbon, while horse-riding with his wife, made a navigational error and – ”

“Rode his horse into a tree?” Jean Treville calls from the front row.

Richelieu does _not_ grit his teeth. By the look of Treville’s shit-eating smile, though, the reporter can tell what’s going through Richelieu’s head. “There was a collision,” Richelieu admits.

“Between the President’s horse and a tree.”

“That’s not – ”

“Aren’t horses usually smart enough not to walk into trees?”

“I’m not a horse expert.”

“Just got to wonder,” Treville says cheerfully.

“Maybe it was an intelligent tree,” George Villiers (London Times) suggests from two rows back.

“Maybe it was an _un_ intelligent President,” Perales says snippily, _sotto voce_ but still more than loud enough to be heard.

Richelieu grits his teeth. _Do not engage. Rise above._ “The President was immediately taken to Mercy Hospital where he was pronounced healthy, with the exception of a bruise on the Presidential patootie, and will be holding standing meetings during his recuperation.” The wave of empathetic laughter calms the edge of aggression in the room, as well as calming Richelieu. “Now, I was hoping we could talk about the oil crisis in Qatar – ”

“Armand?” Treville raises his hand.

Richelieu quashes the shiver that runs down his spine at the sound of Treville calling him by his first name. A blind man would be attracted to the man’s obvious physical fitness, infectious grin and snapping blue eyes. But a mere physical reaction is no grounds for Richelieu to lose his composure, as he reminds himself daily.

Treville is an attractive reporter. Emphasis on _reporter_. As in _the enemy_. As in _flirts for a living because it gets him stories, not because he actually likes you._

As the wise author once wrote: _thinking that a reporter genuinely likes you is pretty much on par with feeling like you really are special to that stripper._

So. Richelieu does not react. Instead he fixes Treville with a quelling look and asks, “Is this a question about the oil crisis in Qatar?”

“No,” Treville says cheerfully.

Richelieu sighs. He’s really got no choice, though. “What?”

“Is the president an accomplished horse rider?”

Richelieu shuffles papers. “The President has been riding for most of his life. He started taking lessons when he was eight on his family’s farm and competed in several competitions during his teenage years, acquitting himself very well.”

“And yet he rode his horse into a tree?”

“The cause of the collision has not yet been identified. Now, the oil crisis – ”

“What charges are being brought against the horse?”

Richelieu stares at Treville.

“I assume the horse is in custody,” Treville says innocently, eyes wide.

“I – uh – well – ” Richelieu flails. He’s doubly lost, first in the sheer absurdity of the question and secondly in the sheer magnificence of that damnably mischievous smile.

“For assault on the President.”

“Charges are brought by federal prosecutors, so you’d have to ask – ” Richelieu starts, spewing constitutional facts as a lifeline only to realize what he’s saying a moment too late. “That is – I don’t think horses – ”

It’s too late. Everyone’s eyes have widened. Everyone is scribbling frantically on their pads. There are going to be a dozen stories tomorrow about this (GOVERNMENT SUES HORSE, the headlines will say) and there is nothing Richelieu can do to stop it.

 _Oh my God,_ Richelieu thinks faintly.

“I have a question about the oil crisis in Qatar now,” Treville says serenely. “That is, if you’re ready to move on?”

* * *

“So how many stories do you think there will be in tomorrow’s papers about the horse being charged with crashing the President into a tree?”

“Twelve at least,” Richelieu sighs, too annoyed with himself to be annoyed at Milady for asking.

“I’m setting the over-under at fifteen,” she says. She makes a careful note. “So your bet is… _under._ Got it. Do you want to make an entry in the ‘most ridiculous headline’ category or are you all right conceding that one to Bernajoux?”

“What did Bernajoux guess?”

Milady consults her notes. “PRESIDENT COWBOURBON LASSOED BY TREE,” she reads aloud in a perfectly deadpan voice.

Richelieu boggles. “BERNAJOUX!” he shouts, turning towards the bullpen where all the communications assistants sit.

A moment later Boisrenard’s head pops up from Bernajoux’s cubicle. “Yes?”

“You’re Boisrenard,” Richelieu says.

“I’m Bernajoux,” he says.

“I thought you were Boisrenard,” Milady says, coming to Richelieu’s rescue.

“ _I’m_ Boisrenard,” another staffer says, appearing behind Richelieu and Milady with two cups of coffee.

“Which of you wrote the headline?” Richelieu demands.

“I did,” the second staffer says.

“Can your parents tell you apart?” Milady asks at the same time.

The two of them acquire identical looks of horror. “We’re not related!” Boisrenard screeches.

“Also, what the hell?” Bernajoux demands. “I’m black and he’s white!”

Richelieu and Milady stop and look at each other. He doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know they’re both thinking _and yet somehow we get you mixed up all the time._

“How could you think we’re related?” Boisrenard wants to know.

“You could be mixed twins!” Jussac says, sticking his head out of Richelieu’s office. “There were these twins in New Jersey – ”

“What are you doing in my office?” Richelieu cries.

Jussac holds up the phone. “The First Lady wants to talk to you.”

Richelieu swears. “I’ll deal with you two and your deplorable command of the English language later,” he tells Bernajoux and Boisrenard, making for his office.

“And we are not twins,” one of them tells Jussac indignantly.

“I know you’re not,” Jussac says. “I’m just saying it’s possible.”

“Shut up!” Richelieu calls, grabbing the receiver. “Mrs. Bourbon?”

“Armand,” Anne Bourbon says sweetly. Richelieu tenses. “I just had the most _interesting_ talk with that cute reporter of yours. Something about the legality of filing charges against nonsentient animals?”

Richelieu’s eyes widen. His head _thunks_ when it hits the wall, followed shortly thereafter by another _thunk_ as his whole body slides down to the floor.

* * *

The phone call ends, but the nightmare doesn’t: Anne Bourbon decides she can’t possibly express the full volume of her concerns over a twisted-pair telephone line, and so Richelieu is summoned to her presence, effective five minutes ago, though as a concession to Richelieu’s mortal frailty she’s agreed to settle for _as soon as you can make it here, and Armand, I do expect you to run._

Anyone who meets Louis Bourbon for a few minutes comes away with an impression of a nice man who earnestly tries to do the right thing and manages it more often than not. Anyone who meets him for _more_ than a few minutes quickly realizes that, good heart aside, Louis Bourbon actually has no idea how to do anything more complicated than tying his shoes (and there’s a reason the man wears Merrells). This usually produces a state of intense confusion in the observer, as Louis has nevertheless managed to win election to the House of Representatives, become Governor of his state, and then be elected President. This confusion is always resolved shortly after meeting his wife. Anne Bourbon is the real political mind in the marriage. Why she’d chosen to prop up her husband instead of breaking down barriers herself is no mystery to Richelieu, who shares her preference for being the power behind the metaphorical throne. But that point of commonality is no comfort as Richelieu grabs his suit jacket and starts running down the hall towards the First Lady’s office.

“Hey there,” Jean Treville says as Richelieu runs by.

Richelieu skids to a halt, halfway down the corridor connecting the communications bullpen to the rest of the West Wing. “What?” he blurts out, flat-footed.

“Nothing. Just saying hi.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Meeting someone.”

Richelieu’s brain still hasn’t recovered from the shock of seeing Treville here, in what is, theoretically, Richelieu’s safe space. “This is the West Wing,” he says dumbly.

Treville looks around. “Yep. And it’s a nice place you have here.”

“You’re a reporter. You’re not supposed to be in the West Wing!”

“I have an appointment.”

Richelieu narrows his eyes. “An appointment.”

“And a visitor’s badge and everything.” Treville taps his chest.

“With whom is your appointment?”

“Some pretentious twit. Have you ever heard a name like this? ‘Armand-Jean du Plessis – ’”

“It’s traditional!” Richelieu cries. Somewhere within him, a bullied teenager shakes his fist defiantly at the sky.

“And yet,” Treville says cheerfully.

Richelieu’s eyes narrow. “You’re not on my calendar for today.”

“I am now. Your assistant put me on. Said it was his pleasure.”

Richelieu looks around. Regrettably, Jussac is nowhere to be seen, and so is spared Richelieu’s wrath for the moment.

“So are you free now?” Treville asks. “My appointment’s not until five so I was going to wait, but – ”

“No, I have to – I have a thing,” Richelieu says lamely. Anne Bourbon’s wrath looms large in his mind.

“Oh.” Jean shrugs. “Sure. That’s fine.”

“A very important thing,” Richelieu adds.

“Of course. You’re a very important person.”

“It’s with the First Lady,” Richelieu blurts out. He doesn’t know why he does it, except that Treville looks disappointed, and like he doesn’t entirely believe Richelieu about the more important thing.

“Oh.” Treville blinks. Probably wondering why Richelieu had shared that piece of information with a reporter, aka the enemy, aka the General Zod to Richelieu’s Superman. But at least Treville doesn’t look anymore like he thinks Richelieu’s making it up.

“I’ll be back later.” Richelieu collects himself with an effort. _Professional_ , he reminds himself. “Maybe my assistant could get you some coffee in the meanwhile?”

“Sure. I’d love some coffee. And we can catch up. Hi, Robert.”

“Hi, Jean,” Jussac says, appearing at Richelieu’s side. “You’re early for your appointment.”

“I was afraid I wouldn’t find parking.” Treville’s lips twitch. “Of course, these days I hear you can ride a horse up to the White House. Any comment on that, Press Secretary?”

“No comment,” Richelieu grits out. “I really have to go. Please, _please_ don’t turn my staff into headlines?”

“No promises,” Treville says, accepting the cup of coffee and turning away. As Jussac leads Treville back to the bullpen, Armand strains himself to hear Treville ask, “Are Bernajoux and Boisrenard around today?”

Richelieu freezes. _Oh no. No. No no no no –_

“Armand?” D’Artagnan stops short in the hallway, his arms piled high with files from Milady, and stares at him in bemusement. “Didn’t the First Lady ask for you half an hour ago?”

“Oh no,” Richelieu breathes, and takes off down the hallway as fast as his legs can carry him, all thoughts of Jean Treville effectually banished for the time being.

* * *

Richelieu drags himself out of the First Lady’s office, seriously wondering if he might want to turn in his resignation and beg the President to make him ambassador to some suitably far-off nation. The Federated States of Micronesia, perhaps. Yap is nice this time of year.

No, wait. The capitol is located somewhere else, isn’t it? Not on the island of Yap. Pohnpei Island. That’s right.

“So maybe not Micronesia then,” Richelieu says out loud.

“What about Micronesia?” Treville asks.

Richelieu doesn’t jump. Most days coming into his office to find his personal Moriarty sprawled on his couch sipping coffee would be grounds for at least a start, maybe even a shriek, but not today.

Today he’d been awoken by Milady’s text telling him Louis Bourbon had ridden his horse into a tree. Today he’d had to give a press conference about the horse-and-tree debacle while facing off with the blue-eyed menace currently making Richelieu’s couch – chosen for its discomfort – look surprisingly appealing. Today he’d been tricked by said menace into implying that a federal prosecutor is going to bring _charges against a horse_ , and followed that up with a delightful thirty-minute full-cavity inspection courtesy of one Anne Bourbon. Who had (to add insult to injury) managed to carve out a solid third of that time to spend on innuendo, implication, and flat-out straightforward R-rated suggestions of what Richelieu should do Treville the second Richelieu gets Treville alone.

Sadly, none of those suggestions had involved strangling Treville. If they had, Richelieu could do it and then shove most of the blame into the First Lady. Insanity, he’d claim. No jury on the planet would convict.

“Next time,” Richelieu promises himself.

“Next time what?” Treville asks.

“Never mind. What are you doing in my office?”

“I have an appointment.”

“Not for another three hours.”

Treville grins. “I can wait.” He flips a page in the stack he’s reading. “You should really punch up the language in this.”

“I – _what_?” Richelieu strides over to the couch and looks down in horror. “That’s the draft of the President’s speech about the oil crisis in Qatar!”

“I figured you wouldn’t mind a little input. From one professional to another. And I have to say, the jokes could really use some work.”

“It’s a crisis. The President’s not supposed to be funny!”

“President Bourbon comes off best when he’s being funny.”

As this is nothing more than the unfortunate truth, Richelieu doesn’t dignify it with a reply. Instead he grabs his copy of the speech and relocates it from Treville’s hands to his desk, noticing with dismay that half of it is covered with red pen already.

“Don’t forget my notes,” Treville calls, waving another sheet of paper.

“You weren’t supposed to make notes!” Richelieu yanks the piece of paper out of Treville’s hands and looks down at – “Is this a tourist’s map of the White House?”

“I needed to find your office.”

Richelieu pins Treville with an unimpressed look. “You know your way around the White House better than I do.”

“I got lost,” Treville says, wide-eyed. “Would you believe it? I ended up in the Oval Office – ”

“Oh, God, of course you did,” Richelieu moans. “Was the President there?”

“He likes me. We played chess.”

“You did _not_. The President doesn’t know how to play chess!”

Treville shrugs. “Yeah, you’re right. We played poker instead.” He waggles his eyebrows up and down.

A yawning pit of horror opens in Richelieu’s stomach. “Did you _bet_?” he hisses wildly. He strides past Treville and slams his office door closed, then rounds on Treville. “Tell me you didn’t _gamble with the President of the United States in his own office.”_

“Hey, man’s the president. If he wants to have a bet – ”

“Treville!”

Treville swings his feet over the end of the couch and leans forward. “Why don’t you call me Jean?”

“What?”

“We all call you Armand. Why don’t you ever call any of us by our first names? You always call me Treville.”

“I’m maintaining a professional distance,” Richelieu flounders. “Let’s talk about the illegal gambling – ”

“ _Alleged_ illegal gambling, please.”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out!”

Treville smiles. He stands up and walks forward, leaning over Richelieu’s desk, which Richelieu has retreated behind in a transparent bid for sanity. “Ask me if we gambled.”

“I just did!”

“Ask me.”

“Did you gamble with the President?”

Treville shakes his head. “You’re asking like I’m a reporter.”

“You _are_ a reporter!”

“Not right now.”

Richelieu opens his mouth. Closes it again. Opens it once more. “What are you, right now?”

“Right now?” Treville shrugs. “I’m President Bourbon’s friend. And I’m your friend. And maybe I’m a little more. If you’re interested.”

Richelieu sits down slowly. He doesn’t look away from Treville the entire time. There’s something in those blue eyes that’s sincere. It frightens Richelieu and excites him in equal measure. It makes him want to run away.

“Just ask me,” Treville says softly.

“Did you – ”

Treville raises a finger. “Ask _me_ ,” he repeats, this time emphasizing the second word.

“Jean,” Armand says.

Jean smiles.

“Did you gamble with the – with Louis?”

“No,” Jean says simply.

Armand nearly collapses with the sheer force of his relief. “Thank _God._ ”

“You do that an awful lot.”

“What?”

“Invoke God.”

“Uh.” Armand flounders. “I guess?”

“You’re very religious.”

“Catholic upbringing,” Armand says, distracted by the way Jean’s smile has widened. It’s lopsided now, catching on an old scar on his cheek. Armand’s never noticed that scar before. And Armand shouldn’t find the way the smile tugs up at one cheek so adorable, but God help him, he does.

“I hope that’s not a problem,” Jean says. “The religion thing, I mean.”

“With a name like Jean Treville – ”

“Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Treville,” Jean corrects. “Every bit as floofy as yours. Yes, with a name like that, of course my family’s Catholic. I just personally don’t care. You obviously do. Is that going to be a problem?”

“It hasn’t been before now,” Armand says, still flat-footed.

“We haven’t been dating before now,” Jean says.

Armand chokes.

“Oh dear,” Jean says. “Maybe I should have listened to Jussac. He did try to tell me you hadn’t figured it out.”

“Figured – what – ”

“That I’ve been making my interest plain.” Jean cocks his head to one side. “I thought I was, but I can rectify that, if you need.”

“No, it’s plain,” Armand gasps.

“Are you sure?” Jean leans forward again, brilliant gaze focused on Armand’s lips. Oh _God._ “I can be plainer – ”

“You’re plain!” Armand finds himself pressed against the windows of his office without any conscious knowledge of moving. He finds two spare brain cells and sets them to worrying about what anyone walking around the outside of the White House with a telephoto lens will make of seeing the Press Secretary’s buttocks firmly glued to the windows of his office. It would give the whole _Aramis-sleeps-with-a-call-girl_ farrago something to share tabloid space with, anyway.

“I sense this has been something of a shock to you,” Jean says.

“You – you – ” Armand is the Press Secretary. He helps make presidential policy. He’s a key figure in the Bourbon Administration. He makes the English language do the tarantella whenever it pleases him. Then why why _why_ can he not think of a single thing to say?

“You need some time to think it over,” Jean nods. “I get that.”

If Jean gets that, Armand thinks desperately, why is Jean coming around the desk and invading Armand’s personal space?

Helpfully, Jean explains. “I just want to make sure, when you’re thinking it over, that you’re taking into consideration _all_ the pertinent facts.”

“Ah,” Armand says.

“Is that a ‘yes’?” Jean asks, amused. He’s leaned in, and there’s no mistaking his meaning, not with their lips so close together that their breaths mingle.

“Ulp,” Armand says.

This close, it’s far too easy to get lost in the crinkles that surround Jean’s eyes when he smiles. “I’m going to need something a little more explicit than that.”

“He says yes!” three voices holler simultaneously. Armand’s eyes widen. Sticking their heads around the side of Armand’s office door, like a still from a Marx Brothers film, are Jussac, Bernajoux and Boisrenard.

Armand’s tongue comes unstuck in a hurry. “YOU ARE ALL FIRED!” he bellows.

The heads disappear. Not, Armand would bet, to clean out their desks and arrange for their last paycheck to be mailed to their forwarding address. No. They’ll be giggling madly to themselves and plotting their next affront.

“Okay. I’ll go now,” Jean says.

Armand’s attention refocuses on the reporter. Jean’s stepped back from Armand’s personal space and is still smiling, but not as widely. It’s gone back to the small smile. The one that doesn’t catch on the edge of Jean’s old scar. It’s polite, and even warm – Jean Treville is nothing if not warm-hearted – but it’s not personal anymore.

“Wait,” Armand blurts. His arm shoots out and grabs Jean’s wrist, not entirely with cognition aforethought. “I – I haven’t got all the pertinent facts yet.”

Jean’s smile widens, cautiously. “Oh no?”

“No,” Armand says earnestly. “I mean yes! Yes. Most enthusiastically yes.”

The crinkles reappear. Deepen. “Which is it, yes or no? I have to say I’m getting awfully mixed signals – ”

Armand hauls Jean forwards and kisses him.

It’s – well. It’s a little awkward. They’re in Armand’s office, after all. Pressed up against Armand’s picture window. With three of the biggest rabble-rousers in the communications bullpen probably still within hearing distance.

But it’s nice. It’s _really_ nice. No fireworks, but at the same time, it’s… comfortable. Familiar. Like they’ve done this before. Like they do this all the time. Like they plan to continue doing this, several times a day, for a very long time.

“There,” Jean says after a moment, as they separate, voice lower and more gravelly than its usual chipper beat. Armand has a sudden vision of that voice, whispering in his ear first thing in the morning, and heat climbs up his face.

“There what?” Armand whispers.

“There you have it,” Jean says.

“Ah.” Armand clears his throat. He glances over to the door. No heads have reappeared. He glances at his clock. Twenty minutes till his next meeting.

“Actually,” Armand says bravely, “I don’t think I quite got that. Would you mind repeating it?”

Jean’s smile stretches so wide it even eclipses his scar.

“My pleasure,” he says, sounding as if he means it completely, and dives back in.

(No one is fired.)


End file.
